Arthur Goes Sixth II: La Mort d'Arthur
by Dead Composer
Summary: The Trickster is back, and Arthur's on his hit list! Can an old companion of the Doctor save him? Crossover with The Sarah Jane Adventures.
1. Sarah Jane Springs into Action

"_I'm physically male, but I consider myself a girl," Tabby admitted. "I've been living as a girl for two years now."_

Mrs. Walters, peering over her newspaper, noticed that Fern hadn't taken a single bite from her caramel-and-cheese popcorn ball. Indeed, the poodle girl appeared quite pale and distracted. "What's wrong, honey?" she inquired.

Fern looked away from the bumpy snack on a stick. "I…don't know if I should tell you," she said quietly.

"So it's a secret," said her mother, intrigued. "Is it an _I'm afraid I'll be embarrassed_ secret, or is it a _matter of national security_ secret?"

She let out a faint sigh. "You've always told me there's nothing wrong with being a girl," she said, her tone humorless. "And I've always believed it. Well, now there's a _boy_ who believes it as well."

Mrs. Walters gave her a quizzical look. "What do you mean, dear?"

Fern set her popcorn ball down on the glass-paneled coffee table, indifferent to the sticky stain it would leave. "You're not gonna believe this, Mom," she said, standing. "It's the craziest, most insane thing ever."

"Crazier than Buster's Skittle pizza?" her mother asked.

"Mom," said Fern, color returning to her cheeks, "Tabby is a _boy_."

Mrs. Walters clenched her teeth to keep her jaw from dropping.

"Her…_his_ real name is David," Fern went on. "When he was nine he started wearing dresses and growing his hair long. When he was ten he decided that gender was irrelevant, and started wearing Goodwill castoffs."

"You're…you're…" Words failed her mother. "You're _kidding_ me. _Tabby?_ She looks 100% female to _me_. In fact, every time I see her I imagine what a pretty girl she'd make if she would just dress normally."

* * *

"I made a tough decision today," said Arthur into the telephone receiver. "It was one of the toughest decisions of my life. Well, actually, it was pretty easy for me, but it was really, _really_ tough for Buster."

"Mm-hmm," said Francine, nodding.

"Anyway," Arthur continued, "Buster's not too happy with me now, so D.W. and I have no one to hang out with, except each other, and that gets old really quick. If you've got nothing else to do…"

"Thanks for the invitation, Arthur," said Francine. "Any other day I'd come over, but Cath and Mitch are visiting, and they don't visit often, so…"

"Catherine's there?" said Arthur loudly. "Cool! Is she more pregnant than she was the last time I saw her?"

"What do you mean, _more_ pregnant?" said Francine in a gently scolding tone. "You're either pregnant or you're not."

In another room of her apartment Catherine lay on a mattress, her belly bulging, her face radiating weariness. "Oy, I am _so_ pregnant," she complained to her husband Mitch, who was typing on a nearby computer. "I don't think I've ever been this pregnant before."

"You're only six months along," quipped Mitch. "It gets better. A _lot_ better."

Catherine grinned. "I love everything about being pregnant," she remarked, "except for the swollen feet, and the back pain, and the worrying about how we're gonna feed our little boy."

Mitch's response was a poignant silence.

"How's the novel coming along?" asked his wife, craning her neck so that her eyes could make out the words on the computer screen.

_All work and no play make Mitch a dull boy_

_All work and no play make Mitch a dull boy_

_All work and no play make Mitch a dull boy_

"I'm still working on the title," Mitch told her.

* * *

Binky saw stars. He saw little else. Ever since his unforgettable meeting with Principal Cameron, stars had dominated his field of vision. Floating, swirling, dancing stars.

A knock came at his bedroom door. "Binky? Are you all right in there?"

"Go 'way," the boy mumbled.

Stars. Spinning, darting, waltzing stars. And an occasional starship.

"Are you sure you won't come out?" his mother called out. "It's almost time for _Dancing with the Stars_."

"Ungh," moaned Binky, clutching his knees tightly to his chest. He felt nauseous. He felt like his vomit would fill the Atlantic Ocean.

"Maybe you should go to the doctor tomorrow," Mrs. Barnes suggested.

"I'm okay!" he retorted vehemently. "I'm fine!"

_I'm not fine_, he told himself. _I don't know what I am, but fine isn't part of it._

"Those four bullies didn't beat you up, did they?"

"No, Mom." _Although that would've been easier to take. I wish I could tell you what happened…but if Sue Ellen ever finds out what I did, she'll hate me for eternity!_

* * *

"Mr. Smith, I need you."

The words came from the mouth of a middle-aged woman with shoulder-length brown locks. She stood, surrounded by odd-looking gadgets of every shape, in the upper floor of a rather undistinguished house on Bannerman Road in London. Next to her right foot squatted a metallic case with a tail-like antenna fixed on one end, and on the other an elongated protruberance topped with a pair of tiny, curved radio dishes. The side of the case was marked with the symbols _K-9_.

In response to her speech, a wall of the very large room split in two, sliding away to facilitate the entrance of a massive console decorated with buttons, switches, and displays. A screen attached to the console came to life, coloring itself with spirals and fractal patterns. A booming but peaceful voice uttered, "Hello, Sarah Jane."

The woman didn't smile. "Rani has an extra ticket for the McFly concert," she told the machine. "I'd like to attend, but the Trickster comes first. Can you provide me with specifics as to his location?"

Flying brains appeared on Mr. Smith's screen, indicating that the supercomputer was deep in thought. "Yes, Sarah Jane, I can," he finally stated.

"Good," she said with relief. "Where is he?"

As his display zoomed in on an aerial view of a city, Mr. Smith replied, "He has been detected in Elwood City, a town in the United States of America."

"Which state?" inquired Sarah Jane.

"That information is not available," answered the computer.

"Never mind," said the brunette. "I'll Google it." Turning her attention to the mechanical creature on the floor, she said warmly, "Pack your bags, K-9. We're going to take a little holiday."

Its dishes wiggled as it moved its front protruberance up and down. "I do not have possessions, mistress," it spoke in a tinny voice. "Therefore, I do not need to pack my bags, but can leave at a moment's notice. To which planet are we traveling, mistress?"

"A planet that regards itself as the center of the universe," replied Sarah Jane. "America."

* * *

To be continued


	2. The Prodigal Son Returns

At the back of the Sugar Bowl's dining area was a table which, strangely enough, everyone avoided. Everyone, that is, but the members of the Freak Clique—Kendra, Duke, and Schlemiel—and their friend, Van Cooper. "Everyone tells me that if I hang out with the freaks, I'll _become_ a freak," said Van to his table-mates.

"I don't know where they get that idea," said Duke, the boy with the photographic memory. "I've had my ability ever since I was four years, seven months, and 28 days old…_long_ before I knew any other freaks."

"Now that you mention it," said Schlemiel, "I didn't start giving people bad luck until a few weeks after I met Duke."

"And _I_ didn't start seeing the future," noted Kendra, "until I met the two of _you_. So maybe Van's on to something here."

Schlemiel's wavy hair swayed as he shook his head. "I always assumed my contagious bad luck was just a Jewish thing," he remarked.

Van stooped over in his wheelchair, his eyes fixed glumly on the tabletop. "I've…I've been getting some weird feelings lately," he admitted to his comrades.

"Feelings?" said Duke with alarm. "Omigosh, you're turning back into a girl!"

"No, no," said the duck boy vehemently. "I know how it feels to be a girl, and it's not like that at all. It's more of a…a _je ne sais quoi_."

"What's a _je ne sais quoi_?" Kendra asked him.

"That's French for 'I don't know what it is,'" Duke informed her.

"Today, as I was leaving school," Van recounted, "just as my mom pulled up in the Buick, I had this sensation, like someone was slapping me across the face."

"Oh, ouch," said Kendra sympathetically.

"I get that same feeling every time my dad slaps _me_ across the face," said Schlemiel.

"It wasn't very painful," Van continued. "The weird part of it is, there was more to it than just the slapping…there was also a powerful sense of _terror_. I felt like I could freak out at any moment. I don't know where it came from, but I know it didn't come from inside of _me_, because I'm only afraid of three things, and none of those things was nearby."

"_What_ three things?" Duke inquired.

"Roller coasters," replied Van, "black widow spiders, and dying alone."

"You're not the only one who's afraid of big spiders," said Kendra.

"I'm not afraid of _all_ big spiders," said Van. "I _love_ tarantulas."

"You know, Van," said Duke, resting his elbows on the table, "I read a book once—actually, I read it on April 16th, 2007, in the school library, next to an east-facing window with pink azalea bushes—and it was called _Empathy and Energy_. The author, Daisy Wildmeadow, a practitioner of holistic medicine who lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan with her husband, three children, and two miniature Schnauzers, claims that some people are natural empaths, which means they can sense the emotions of other people. In other words, when you felt like you were being slapped in the face, perhaps _someone else_ was being slapped, and you picked up what that person was feeling."

There was a short silence among the group of four. "Yeah, I suppose there might be people like that," said Van, "but I'm not one of them."

"Don't be so sure," said Duke. "Let's do an experiment. I'll feel something, and then you'll tell me what I'm feeling. Are you ready?"

"Uh, okay," said Van, sounding rather bored.

The poodle boy put on a stoic face. Van, after scrutinizing his friend's expression for a few moments, said, "I'm not getting anything."

Duke grinned. "That was jealous rage. I'll try a different one."

Kendra and Schlemiel looked on curiously. Van once again tried to read the boy, only to physically recoil when an unexpected burst of emotion struck his mind.

The only thing he could say was, "Wow."

"Wow _what?_" asked Duke, leaning closer. "What did you sense? It was pretty strong, whatever it was."

Van waited for his eyes to refocus before speaking. "You feel…overjoyed," he said solemnly. "Your heart's _exploding_ with joy. It's like somebody you loved and lost has come back to you, and you're crying in each other's arms."

Duke's ears drooped with disappointment.

"Was he right?" inquired Kendra.

"Not even close," replied Duke with a shrug. "Oh well, it was only an idea."

* * *

The weeds flourished around the England house, a clapboard chateau where widowed Emma and her toddler, Elizabeth, struggled to make do. The Pomeranian woman, relaxing in front of a Bible study TV program after a day of working in the sun, was startled by a knock at the door. She rose to answer, only to observe that the small visitor had already allowed himself inside.

She didn't believe what she was seeing. _Zeke…my God…_

"Zeke, it's _you!_" she cried, the tears beginning to gush. "I thought you were gone forever! Thank God, you've come back!"

Her arms flew around the shoulders of the morose-looking boy. "Mom…" he said flatly.

"Oh, my God," she wailed in ecstasy. "Thank you, God, thank you! Thank you for bringing my little boy home!"

"Mom?" said Zeke, a bit louder.

Mrs. England gazed upwards, droplets from her eyes falling onto her son's scalp. "How can I show my gratitude? I'll go to church every Sunday. Wait, I _already_ do that…"

"MOM!"

Her reverie broken, she stared at the boy's smudged, scowling face. "What is it, Zeke?" she asked.

"Mom," he said in a deadly serious tone, "why did you kick me out of the house?"

"What…?" Mrs. England paused to mop up her cheeks with her apron.

"That red-headed lady was _me_, Mom," Zeke told her. "I tried to tell you, but you didn't believe me. I used a magic unicorn horn to change. If I hadn't done it, a lot of people would have died."

"Oh, God, you're deranged from hunger," said her mother, scurrying to the kitchen. "I'll make you some peanut butter sandwiches." From the other room she called out, "Where have you been all this time, Zeke?"

"Here and there," the boy replied. Seating himself on the ragged couch, he added, "Mostly looking for a job, staying at the homeless shelter, and trying to get used to that crazy, scary body. I'll tell you one thing—through this experience I gained a greater understanding and appreciation for the ickiness of girls."

"So, you had to go through periods, and everything?" said Mrs. England, accompanied by the clanging of silverware.

"For the first few months," answered Zeke. "Then they stopped."

"I just hope you didn't have any boyfriends," said his mother. "Or girlfriends, for that matter."

"There were a few guys who came on to me," Zeke related, "but they weren't my type. Most of them were mentally ill."

Mrs. England returned from the kitchen, a plate of sandwiches in tow. "If you really _did_ turn into a woman," she inquired of her son, "then how did you change back? Another magic horn?"

Zeke took a greedy bite, then said, "I don't know, Mom. I was waiting to interview for a job at a meat-packing plant, just sitting there, and poof! I was a boy again. The clothes and shoes I'm wearing? I didn't buy them…they just _appeared_ on me."

His mother planted a kiss on the left side of his face. "You've been blessed by God," she stated. "He heard your prayers and saved you."

"That, or maybe the magic just wore off," said Zeke, setting down his sticky meal. "I'm not sure God had anything to do with it, because I prayed and prayed the whole time, but I didn't feel like he was there."

"Don't say such things," Mrs. England chided him. "God is always dependable. _We're_ the ones who are not."

"Mom," said Zeke earnestly, "what if magic's more powerful than God?"

"That's blasphemy," said his mother in an icy tone.

"I know," said Zeke. "And I know what it says in the Bible, that Moses had a wizard's duel with the servants of Pharaoh and kicked their butts. What does that prove?"

"It proves that our God is greater than the gods of Egypt," was Mrs. England's facile answer.

"Exactly," the boy continued. "So if I spent a whole year stuck as a woman because of a magic spell, and God couldn't do a thing about it, does that mean I should be a _magician_ instead of a Christian?"

* * *

to be continued


	3. The Curious Case of Francine Frensky

"I hope you're not here to ask for money," said Mr. Frensky sternly.

The conversation between Catherine, Mitch, and the Frensky parents was tense and, for the most part, wordless. None of them dared to crack a smile. Mr. and Mrs. Frensky sat stiffly in their chairs and glowered, as if hoping to sweep away the young married couple in a tide of disapproval.

"No, we didn't come to ask for money," Catherine reassured them.

"Although," added Mitch, "if your intent is to _offer_ us money, we won't turn it down."

Mrs. Frensky sighed. "I just turned forty, and I'm already about to become a grandmother," she said, a bit wistfully, a bit regretfully. "This is what comes from rushing into marriage and family life, Catherine. We also married fresh out of high school, and look at us now—your father lugs garbage for a living, and I have to teach to make ends meet. Your life will be a struggle now, a struggle you could have avoided by taking our advice."

Catherine responded with a carefree smile. "If I had it to do over again, I'd do it over again," she stated. "My life with Mitch is better than any college degree or fancy house I can imagine. Every night when Mitch comes home, he tells me stories about all his interesting fares."

"You wouldn't believe what some people confess to their cab drivers," Mitch chimed in. "It's like being a therapist, but without the responsibility."

"Compare that to Uncle Stewart," said Catherine. "He went to university, earned a Ph.D. in nuclear engineering, and took a job at Los Cactos National Laboratory. When he goes home, he can't tell his wife _anything_."

Francine strode into the living room, her gait appearing wider than before. "Mom," she spoke up. "I think I must've had a growth spurt, because my clothes don't fit anymore."

Mrs. Frensky eyed the girl, whose red blouse tightly hugged her eleven-year-old figure. "You _have_ grown," she remarked, somewhat astonished. "I'll fetch some of your sister's old clothes." She left quickly for the closet, rifled through a stack of cardboard boxes, and retrieved one with the label _Catherine, age 12_.

Her sister's sudden increase in size piqued Catherine's interest. "You're getting bigger all the time, Frankie," she gushed. "Especially your butt."

Francine giggled riotously.

"Someday you won't think that's funny," said Catherine.

"Here we are," said Mrs. Frensky, proudly holding up the old blouse and denim jeans which Catherine had worn (and worn, and worn) in middle school.

"I'm not wearing _that_," said Francine with disgust. "The people living under the bridge _do_ have standards, you know."

Her joke had apparently gone over their heads. Instead of laughing, her parents, Mitch, Catherine, and even Nemo were gaping at her in dismay.

"What?" she said, bewildered. _Could it have something to do with the fact that I'm suddenly finding it hard to breathe?_

Her blouse was shrinking, or so it seemed—tightening around her ribcage in a python-like death grip. The pressure of her jeans against her waist was equally unbelievable. Threads snapped, fabric tore, and certain body parts inflated. _This must be some kind of demented fantasy sequence_, she thought, clear-minded in spite of the intense discomfort.

"Omigod, Frankie!" exclaimed Catherine. "What's happening to you?"

"_You_ tell _me_," her strained voice uttered. Looking down, she saw only jagged ribbons of red silk, a pair of fleshy mounds, and a linoleum floor that grew more distant with each passing second.

Mrs. Frensky, screeching in horror, dropped the hand-me-downs and seized a blanket from the couch to throw around Francine's shoulders. Everyone else remained petrified. "This…this isn't happening," said Mitch, his eyes like dinner plates.

"Shouldn't we be calling a doctor?" said Mr. Frensky.

_I feel fine_, thought Francine, although she had the impression that the blanket was the only thing covering her. She felt wobbly, as if fighting to stay balanced on stilts. _I don't know what just happened, but it reminded me of two years ago, when I…no, that's ridiculous!_

"Is that…is that _you_, Francine?" her mother inquired timidly.

"Who else would it be?" the girl replied. Her voice, though unmistakably her own, sounded considerably deeper than before. _I must be a ghost_, she thought, _because Mitch looks like he just saw one._

"Those dimples," said the young man, his hand quivering as he reached out to point at her. "It was you. My God, it was _you_."

"It was _who_, Mitch?" Catherine wanted to know.

He had to force the words to leave his mouth. "It wasn't you I picked up that day, Cath," he stated. "It was _her_."

The chill going down Francine's spine took longer to travel than normal. _Does he mean what I think he means?_

"Excuse me," she said quietly. As she turned, she nearly stumbled over her unexpectedly large feet.

Reaching the bathroom required only four strides, as opposed to the usual eight. She recognized something was amiss the moment she saw the reflection of her face, very nearly cut off by the top of the mirror. She let go of the blanket. It slid off her back, revealing the naked, curvy form of a woman in her early twenties.

The building's supports shook from her screams.

* * *

To be continued


	4. A Prophecy of Doom

No one knew what to make of the tall, unclothed woman who had, a moment earlier, been Francine. "I can't believe this," she mumbled, staring at her new shape in the bathroom mirror. "I'm all grown up. _Again_."

Catherine, noticing her husband's inappropriate curiosity, jabbed him with an elbow. "Stop staring, Mitch."

Mr. Frensky stepped forward, placing the blanket in Francine's long, slim fingers. "What do you mean, _again?_" he asked. "Has this happened before?"

She nodded sheepishly. "Two years ago," she related, "Arthur, D.W., Greta, and I were trying to get a magic unicorn horn away from Ralph Baker, before he turned it over to a scientist for experimentation. We tried to catch a taxi, but the driver said…"

"I said, 'I'm not running a school bus, little girl,'" Mitch recalled.

"That's when I had the idea," Francine continued, "to use the _other_ unicorn horn to wish myself into a grownup. So I did, and we rode the taxi to stop Mr. Baker, and after that I wished to be a little girl again." She dolefully examined the unwelcome new attachments to her body. "From the looks of it, that wish didn't take."

"So _that's_ how you did it," marveled Mitch.

Francine huddled tightly in the blanket. _Looking at him makes me feel funny all over_, she thought. _Gosh, but he's dreamy…_

"All we need is another unicorn horn, then," said Catherine helpfully.

"Are you kidding, sis?" said Francine. "The unicorns aren't about to gift-wrap one of their horns and FedEx it to us. Don't you remember what happened at Times Square last year?"

"Er, ah," said Catherine, "Mitch and I didn't have much time for watching TV back then."

"I wouldn't even know where to _look_ for the unicorns," said Francine, her desperation growing. "Greta's dead, the X-Pets have disbanded, Pal isn't talking…"

"Meow," Nemo chimed in (translation: "_I_ know where they're hiding.")

"Nice kitty," said Francine, bending over deeply to scratch his head.

"Until we find a solution, you're going to need clothes," said Mrs. Frensky. "You look like a large C-cup to me."

"A _what?_" said Francine, bewildered.

"Omigod, I'm _so_ jealous," remarked Catherine.

* * *

Buster, pleasantly surprised, looked over the text of the E-mail he had just received:

_Hi Buster its Blake. Sorry I cant go to your schol no more. You can visit me any time you want. My adress is 451 Cou Rouge Street. Your freind, Blake_

He didn't hesitate a moment. "Mom!" he called out. "Can we go to Blake's house? He lives on Cou Rouge Street."

Bitzi stepped in from the living room, leaving young Petula to scamper about in only a diaper. "Cou Rouge?" she mused. "That's in an unsafe part of town."

"Yeah, I know," said Buster with an eager grin. "But Blake lives there, and his dad, and _they_ haven't been robbed or killed yet."

"That's different," said his mother. "Everybody knows they're poor. If I go in there, they may mistake me for a rich woman. Also, there's Petula to think about."

"You could hire a sitter for her," Buster suggested.

Bitzi scowled so fiercely that her horn-rimmed glasses nearly cracked. "I am _not_ hiring another sitter for Petula," she stated. "_Ever_."

Buster sighed dejectedly.

"Blake can come _here_ if he wants to," said his mother.

"Cool!" said Buster with elation. "I'll let him know."

In the living room, Petula waved her dainty finger at a pink elephant toy, which began to float several inches above the carpet.

Not wasting a moment, Buster typed a response on the computer keyboard: _My mom says you can visit us at our condo. I think that would be better because we have more food here. Your friend, Buster._

He clicked the Send button. An instant later the doorbell rang. _He's here already?_ thought the rabbit boy. _That sure was quick._

"Buster?" came Bitzi's voice. "Zeke's here to see you."

He started to rise from his chair, and paused to reflect on his mother's announcement. His ears stood on end.

"What the…?" he blurted out. "Did you say _Zeke's_ here?"

"Hey, Buster," said the pom lad standing rigidly in the doorway to his room.

Buster mentally brushed off his surprise. "Where did you go?" he inquired. "Where have you been? I haven't seen you since, like, the beginning of time."

"I'm sure you don't want to hear about my horrible year," said Zeke.

"My friends told me you turned into a girl," said Buster. "Is that true?"

"Worse than that," said Zeke. "I turned into a _woman_."

"Oh, dear gosh," said Buster, wincing. "But now you're you again. How'd you turn back?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," said Zeke. "Maybe the unicorn wish had an expiration date."

"I hope not," said Buster, "or Prunella's in big trouble."

Zeke found a chair to sit on. "After I changed back, I went home and tried to talk to my mom about it," he told his friend. "She didn't understand. It's like to her, everything good that happens is a miracle, and everything bad that happens just makes us appreciate miracles more. She doesn't know what it's like to lose everything that matters to you—your home, your family, even your own _body_. She doesn't know what it's like to lie awake in a cot every night, praying and praying for God to make me no longer a freak, but not getting any answers."

"I don't know what it's like either," said Buster. "I mean, I've never prayed before."

"Never?" said Zeke.

The young rabbit shook his head. "Well, there _was_ this one time when I was five. Mom, Dad and I were at the state fair, and I asked Dad to get me a jelly donut, but he was like, 'No, you can't have another jelly donut, you've had six already.' I was so sad, and I looked up at the sky, and I wondered if there was somebody up there, somebody who would give me all the jelly donuts I asked for, forever and ever."

"And what happened?"

Buster smiled wistfully. "I fell asleep."

* * *

Arthur lifted the remote wearily and changed the station, hoping to perhaps see a _Bunny League_ episode he hadn't already watched five times or more.

"Oh, I'm _so_ bored," said Bionic Bunny, reclining in his chair as he scanned the giant viewscreen for signs of an impending alien invasion.

"So am I," said his comrade-in-arms, Dark Bunny. "There's nothing on Earth to do. Have all the super-villains taken a sabbatical at once?"

Amazon Bunny burst into the console room, visibly alarmed. "Great Hera!" she exclaimed. "Am I glad I finally found you guys!"

"What is it?" asked Bionic Bunny, leaping to his feet. "Fifty-foot lava monsters menacing South Dakota?"

"The Smoker?" inquired Dark Bunny. "The Griddler? Ra's-al-Goulash?"

"Nope," replied Amazon Bunny. "Just bored, that's all."

Groaning quietly, Arthur turned to face his couch-mate, D.W. "So, what's new?" he asked his sister.

"In the last five minutes?" said the aardvark girl peevishly. "Nothing."

A knock was heard at the front door. "I'll get that," said Arthur, hoping for a bit of mental stimulation.

He shuffled to the door, dragged it open, and beheld a long-eared, hairless girl, who proceeded to gape at him. "You're…you're one of Van's friends," Arthur observed.

"I'm Kendra North," said the unsettled girl. "And you're the boy I've been seeing."

"What…?" said D.W., watching from the living room. "You're Arthur's _girlfriend?_"

"Shut up, D.W.," Arthur snapped at her. "What's this about?" he asked Kendra.

"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this," she said, gazing meekly at the porch.

"Tell me what?"

"I saw…" There was sadness in her hazel eyes. "I saw a man wearing a black cloak and hood. He was laughing. And I saw you, lying at his feet…_dead_."

* * *

To be continued


	5. More Bad News

D.W. gazed, stupefied, at the bald girl in the plaid skirt. "Are you serious?" she marveled. "Arthur's gonna _die?_"

"I'm afraid so," replied Kendra, nodding slightly.

"I get his room!" D.W. exclaimed triumphantly.

"You _have_ a room," Arthur reminded her.

"But I want a room with a southern exposure," said D.W.

"Then who gets _your_ room?" asked Arthur.

"Wilbur, when he's old enough," said D.W. "Until then I'll sublet it."

Kendra stood stiffly, a bit of a smile on her lips as she watched the exchange between the siblings. "Why don't you come in?" Arthur invited her.

"No harm in that, I suppose," said Kendra, stepping over the threshold. "I mean, since you're going to die, I can't make things worse for you, can I?"

She curiously examined the various kitchen gadgets and the bowl of rising bread dough. Arthur followed her, asking, "What are you, a psychic or something?"

"Yes," she said flatly. "I usually see things that won't happen for a long time. And they're always _bad_ things—wars, disasters, accidents, celebrity fashion gaffes, stuff like that."

"Does it ever come true?" inquired Arthur.

"I don't know," replied Kendra. "Like I said, most of what I see won't happen for years. This time it's different, though. You don't have long at all. He's coming."

"_Who's_ coming?" Arthur pressed her. "The hooded guy? Who is he?"

"I couldn't get a good look at his face," Kendra related. "It was all blurry."

Arthur folded his arms and peered at her. "I'm not sure if I believe you," he said slowly. "I've seen it all—telepathy, telekinesis, mind control—so I guess seeing the future isn't much of a stretch. But the things _you_ predict are so far away, none of us will live long enough to know if you're right or not."

"It's like the stuff in the Bible," D.W. chimed in.

"We _believe_ in the Bible, D.W.," said Arthur sternly.

He looked back at Kendra, whose eyes seemed to be reddening with tears. "What's the matter?" he asked gently.

"Nothing," said the girl, her lower lip trembling. "I'm used to not being believed. I'll deal with it." She hurriedly made her way to the front door, adding, "So long, and watch out for the hooded man."

Arthur closed the door as she left, but not before hearing a series of loud, anguished sobs from her direction.

* * *

"Aren't you forgetting something, Frankie?"

Francine, her body covered by one her sister's pre-maternity outfits, her face covered by a silly grin, turned around in response to her mother's call. "What?"

"Now that you're an adult," said Mrs. Frensky, her hands clutching the straps of a lace brassiere, "you'll need to wear _this_."

Francine cast a bemused, but unworried, glance at her. "Why? I'm wearing a blouse. Nobody can see them."

"Just put it on," said her mother as she advanced. "Here, I'll help you."

"Why bother?" said Francine. "It's just a trip to the doctor's office."

"Trust me," said Mrs. Frensky.

"C'mon, let's go," said Francine, shoving open the door to her apartment. "I'm not getting any younger."

"Frankie, wait!" cried her mother. Francine, however, anxious to test her new legs, began to heedlessly skip down the stairway towards the lower floors.

After about a dozen steps, she stopped and grimaced with displeasure.

"Oh," she muttered to herself. "_That's_ why I need it."

Deciding to accept her mother's offer of assistance, she lifted up her blouse in front of the bathroom mirror while Mrs. Frensky fastened the undergarment. "Ow!" the girl-turned-woman complained. "Mom, it's digging into my skin!"

"Don't worry," said her mother calmly. "In a few months you'll develop calluses, and then you'll feel like you're not wearing it at all."

Once the procedure was done, Francine made a quarter turn and gazed lovingly at her side-view reflection. "Omigosh, I totally look like a supermodel," she said, wiggling her hips with glee. "Wait till Muffy sees me! She'll just die!"

"Do you want to look like that forever?" Mrs. Frensky asked her.

"Oh, yeah," replied Francine.

"Do you want to have babies?"

"Yeah."

"More bad news."

* * *

To be continued


End file.
